the intern brought in to help the HR departmentorganise the warning letters and counselling session minutes that they leave in big piles on their desks not having the time to tidy them away into the staff’s filesbecause they’re too busy writing up warning letters or chairing counselling sessionseats rice crackers and cucumber discs for lunch because, she says, she can’t afford much else what with her being on a ‘travel expenses only’ contractwhilst she’s trying to get some experience under her belt packing up her CV with ticks and hitswhich Chantelle, the mother-of-three telephonist, who’ssharper than the edge of a swordsucks her teeth up and tells her across the lunch table that she's fucking mental working for just the fare in and back home and then she asks who pays for that? where do you live? which the intern explains is complicated what with all her family living up Northnot having enough to sort her out with her own roomso she’s sort of in between homes at the momentbut reckons that the next month is sorted because she’s shacked up with a bloke she met at Pride - she’s not stupid and a month is usually the length of time before they get fed up with you not paying much rent swerving everything to do with money to which Chantelle says backfuck that for a game of soldiers but the intern tells her not to worry because it’s only for another 9 months and then she’ll have clocked up the 2-years-minimum experience you need before you can even apply for an HR joba proper one one that actually pays which will help her clear off some of her debthow she’s looking forward to that to getting some peace and stability back into her lifesome of her self respect back

just hopes she’ll be able to find one that a company hasn’t got an intern doing on a ‘travel expenses only’ contract

The proliferation of unpaid internships continues unabated. Companies think that a person needs to have years of ‘experience’ first before they can be offered a salaried job. But you can only get ‘experience’ if you do the job. Whatever happened to entry-level jobs, to apprenticeships, to 13-week probation periods? For years all of these were adequate systems in which a ruthless company could remove a new employee, and without much fuss, if they thought that a new employee wasn’t showing any promise in the role they had been taken on for and were being paid to learn.

The solution nowadays though is different – all the costs have been removed for the company, with the introduction of unpaid internships. But this takes away the opportunity for vast swathes of working-class people to get into journalism, fashion, the media, HR, accountancy, recruitment, even some sports-related carers now require a stint of ‘slavery’ first. And purely because they don’t have enough money behind them, or families with enough disposable wealth to support them while working 2 to 4 years in an unpaid internship. It's a type of slavery that only the well-off can afford to endur, leaving the working class behind to pick up the scraps, take a job in the gig economy, do nothing, become more disillusioned, or if they are lucky, hit it off with a mate of a mate's dad or uncle who needs a landscape gardener for the summer, at £80 cash in the palm three days a week.

But it’s not always like that. Those working-class young people who do have the guts to venture out on the path of an internship – to follow their dreams – they go to great lengths of cunning and quickly learn the dark arts of survival if they are to stand even a chance of making it through to the end. This is a poem about one of those people.

Lucas has itas he walks in early for workwith a flask and Tupperware box full of sandwiches under his armwith ‘mornings’ and ‘alright mates’spilling out of him like birdsongbefore he sits down at his workstationspreading it out across the whole room

Rajesh has itas he dances across the control room floorturning and spinning like he’s in his favourite Bollywood movietapping colleagues on the shoulderbefore leaning down next to themand peering at them with bulging eyesdoing that thing with his headfrom side to sidewhile wagging fingers at thembefore spinning off againand making himself a cup of tea

Ashley has itas she sits at her phone stationevery now and then letting that laugh of hers out into the airdirty and gravelly as a docker’sthat burrows in through our earsso that it swims in and around our muscles and our veins and our stomachswarming up our entire systems

Antoine has itas he sits at his deskcarrying on imaginary conversations with the controllerswhile it’s roaring busy and the phones constantly ringingabout how he thinks those controllershaven’t had sex in monthsor proper kissed a girl since they were teenagersthings totally unrelated to workthat dissipates all of the pressureand can make you feellike you’re in a school playground once againrather than in a control roomtrying to protect your job

they are the only things they’ve got leftthat haven’t been taken away from them yetthat despite the snide comments and threatsthe traps they setfor them to fall overin the third year of a pay freezewith the purchase of the CEO’s shiny new Bentleysitting outside in the yardhasn’t broken them yet

these hearts of theirsbigger than the sunspreading their heat and light outpulling everyone upby the scruffs of their necksthis magical spirit of theirsthat keeps on pumping keeps onlaughing its magiceven when everything else around us seems to be falling apartand designedto make us give up

]]>info@culturematters.org.uk (Martin Hayes)PoetryWed, 01 May 2019 14:07:30 +0000where once there was grasshttps://culturematters.org.uk/index.php/arts/poetry/item/3027-where-once-there-was-grass
https://culturematters.org.uk/index.php/arts/poetry/item/3027-where-once-there-was-grass

where once there was grass

by Martin Hayes

the yellow and green of the ambulanceused to be all whitewith just one single blue lighton the top of it

the boys used to swedge a little in the parksfisticuffs and a boot in the gutsnot saying that’s rightbut at least they used to go to bed of a nightand were just about able to rise up again next daydrink R Whitesand pull on a pair of Filas

the bobbies’ uniformsused to be a slightly lighter shade of bluebut they never used to wearthe armour the Magnum side-zipped Panther boots the steel extendable batonthe breast camera and pepper spraythe stab vests and Batman belts

the blue and white cordoning-off tapeused to be yellow and blackand when you saw itit was like this great thing had happenedthat drew you in like a magnetbut nowwhen you see the blue and white tapebeing hung around the kids’ necksagain and againyou just swerve it cross to the other side of the roadavoiding it like an annoying neighbourso that your heart doesn’t have to dropand splintera little bit more

dislocateduntil it hangs like a useless legthat no one can feel or wants to be a part of

until a girl can’t even sit in a park without fear of getting stabbeduntil lives keep disappearingup into the air like smoke and you can’t stop asking yourselfwho can put these vicious fires out nowwhere once there was grass

there have always been jobs ever since we were able to stand upand grew handsthings to clean things to cook things to count things to watchthings to tie up like shoes and birthday presentsthings to ironlike shirts and petticoats things that need fixing things that need sortingthings that need making and things that need breaking

but the jobs I’m talking aboutare the jobs you see the dustman doingand the doctor doingand the fireman doingand the woman at the checkout in the supermarket doing and the man behind the counter who brings you your chicken nuggets doing

those jobs are not household jobsbut jobs that people get paid forso that they can pay for a roof to go over your heador for water and electricityto keep you warmor for food and fruitso you can eator a train set or a bicycle so you can playor a trip to the cinemaor a new pair of shoesso you can live

those jobsbelieve it or notwe’re created by the pea

I knowit sounds impossible doesn’t itbut when a pea is bornit is born in a podalong with lots of other peas

and one dayit was realised that peas were very special indeedso everyone set about trying to get as many peas behind them as possiblebecause the more they hadthe more it made them feel safe and warm

so important did the peas becomethat competitions were set upto see who could build a pile of peasthe highest

some were very good at thisand won competition after competition after competition until they had so many peas that nobody else had any left

so the winners of the competitionscreated jobs for the losers of the competitions to do

and when they’d been donethey paid them with a few peasbut only enoughso that they could eator rent a roof to live under

and when they ateor paid for their roof to live underthey paid for them with peas

the same peas they’d been given for doing their jobsuntil they had no peas left againuntil they had done more jobsand earned a few more peas

so the winners of the competitions always got their peas back

and this has been going on for centuriesand doesn’t look likeit will ever changein the centuries to comeunless someone does somethingabout the importance of peas

there is a hole in her hull and she is tilting in the harbour,unable to go out to sea any more,because the captain abandoned shipleaving behind two crew,she is letting in waterand every month the hole just gets bigger.

she has a leaking hulland she doesn’t know what to do,the system doesn’t seem to want to allow herto fix it,because after she has paid for the mooring costsand the interest on the loan she took outto buy a new set of sailsthere is never enough left over to buy any wood and nails, tar and brushes,that would help her patch it up, stem the flowof the water.

all she wantsis to become seaworthy again,but it seems the system is designed to make her wait,to fill in form after form onlinethat no one ever answers,causing her hole to get even bigger,letting in more water,ruining her furnishingsand spoiling all of the food on boardso that there is nothing left to sleep onor eat anymore.

now that she is in this messthe system doesn’t seem to want to allow herto mend her hullpreferring insteadto make her wait under the harbour lightsnot knowing what is going onso that she tilts even moreuntil she finally takes on so much waterthat she will go underand sink to the bottom of the harbouralong with the rest of the wrecks.

fuck off with your award-winningfuck off with your writer groupsfuck off with your plastic covers of books that contain no heartno gutsfuck off with your equations and rulesyour blank little spaces that are supposed to represent a women's breath a man's sweatfuck off with your readings and open mic eventsyour slaps on the backyour reach-aroundsfuck off with your ‘suffering’ radar it is so busyfuck off with your dead pets your dead mothers who stitched seahorses into your duvets and dressing gowns and fuck off to your pieces that are so PC on-pointPC is stuck in your throats like a bunch of frogs and whenever any of you speakall we get is the same croak the same storm of wordswe need a different ragingother than your obscure metaphors your complicated words and your irrelevant plots

we need you now more than everbut all you can do is paint pictures of seas crashing onto beaches that no one will ever sit on skies littered with stars that no one can see silk gloves that will never fit the hands of the men and women you punt your dribble out at

some of the people I work with have made these spaces where they spend 11 hours a day protected areasthey have developed elaborate internal defences that have convinced them that these spots they sit inare almost sacredthey use plastic figurines, pictures, stones and cactus plants to ward off any bad luck that might try to invade themas every morning these lucky charms are unlocked from their lockers and carried like sacred relics to their owners' workstations where they will all day look down over them spreading their good luck into the hearts of these men who just want to get through another day another week to another paycheque as Lenny places the 2 plastic Buddhas of his on top of his control box and breathes in a deep breath before his shift starts as Antoine crosses himself and kisses the forehead of the plastic Jesus his mother gave him just before she died as Tommy places down his moonstone and mini cactus on the shelf above his control box thinking that the spirits of the desert will now be watching over him as Robbie never forgets to pat or stroke the furry head of the troll that his dead sister gave him on his 7th birthday and Bill blue-tacks back up the 4 pictures of his grandchildren around his monitor as a reminder of why he is still controlling and Lucas hangs a picture of a man starving in a potato field on his headphones' hookas his

we all have things we believe in,to thank for this job for this still beating bloodfor the lady who makes a home for us to come home to every nightfor the car that fires up when you twist the key the numbers that give us a much needed tenner on the Thunderballon the last weekend of the monthfor the neighbour who helps you lift the freezer up the stairs watches over your children when you're late home from workfor the insanity of kindness we are still able to show each otherthe wine we are yet to drinkthe hot water we bathe inthe wolf unable to find your door yet

we all have things to thank, that we believe infor no other reason than it feels right,because without them we would take even more magic away from the worldthan already has been

This poem was one of the five winners of the 2018 Bread and Roses Poetry Award, sponsored by Unite.

at Wembley dogs we used to buy brown Hofmeister bottles of beer and jump all over the seats that people once sat in to watch England win the World Cup we used to eat hot dogs longer than our cocks and run up and down the finishing straightshouting on our muts

at Wembley dogs we used to hold hands together and look up at the blue archless sky turn into indigo nightthe stars suddenly reveal themselves just over the back of Neasden shopping center

at Wembley dogs we told the bookmakers we wanted a bag of sand on the 3 dogand when they told us to bugger offwe’d wink at them and say, “you’re most probably right, Guvnor,make that an Ayrton”

at Wembley dogs we walked from bar to rail and back againtipping our heads at everyone as we wentlike we were some kind of Charlie Big Potatoeswith our pockets filled with our week’s payand electricity rolling all over our skin

at Wembley dogs we made our happiness happen we madeour 5 day 55 hour weeks feel worth it we made great big smiles spread over our facesand our hearts roared back into life as wesaw ourselves in everyone else around us, stucktwo fingers up at their setting sun and cheered up our moon

at Wembley dogs we unpicked the chainsthat they stitched around usall week;we plucked out the barbed wirethat they hooked into our backsall week;we let our lungs fill up with air again that they had stuffed full with memos and rules and procedures all week;and we rinsed our eyesso we could see through the darkness they tried to createall week

there are no Wembley dogs anymorethey have moved it off the streetsmoved it all online and into the betting shopsnot just because of economic validityor the price it coststo keep a piece of greyhound meat but because things like Wembley dogsenabled us to see through their darknessrecapture our identity stitch our shadows back onstoke up the anger and energyto see through their gulag-weeksand feel something otherthan what they wanted you to feel

as they scream from their think-tanks and boardrooms –“TURN OFF ALL OF THEIR LIGHTS!”

]]>info@culturematters.org.uk (Martin Hayes)PoetryMon, 18 Jun 2018 20:35:21 +0000why not a job: two poems for May Day from Martin Hayes and Fred Vosshttps://culturematters.org.uk/index.php/arts/poetry/item/2807-why-not-a-job-a-poem-for-mayday
https://culturematters.org.uk/index.php/arts/poetry/item/2807-why-not-a-job-a-poem-for-mayday

Martin Hayes has sent in a poem dedicated to Fred Voss, and the compliment has been returned.

why not a job

by Martin Hayes

after Fred Voss

why not a job to dedicate your life towhy does it always have to be a man who died on a cross or who sat under a fig tree or who was the last messenger to bring the words of an invisible and unreachable God to usthose words don’t feed us or keep us warm they don’t feed the homeless man or woman but a job could put a pair of gloves on a pair of their hands a job could put a hat on their headand help stop them from getting cold why does a job not get sung out for in churcheshave drumsbeaten for why not a job that pays for the water and food that goes into the mouths of our familieswouldn’t it be better to stand up for our right to have a jobrather than our right to hold a gun in our handswhy not a job to wave banners about in the air forto hold hands on the 1st of May forwhy not a job that pays for a roof over our headsfeeds electricity and heat into our homesrather than a bullet into a ‘rag-head’ neckwhy not a job as our rightrather than these Gods that we keep rattling our cages forwhy can’t these jobs be our Godsour way of earning a livingthe religion we would die forrather than the colour of a flag

Workers, by Peter Kennard

Are we really not worthy of a poem?

by Fred Voss

after Martin Hayes

Are we really not worthy of a poemare we meant to be hidden behind windowless tin walls all our liveswe workerswe soldiers in a war for our liveswe all have hands hopes earsto hear our baby’s first words tearsbeside our father’s deathbedwe are Huck Finn willing to go on down that Mississippi River with escaped slave Jimeven if it means going to Hell we areall a piece of the universe a piece of each othera hand on a hammera heart bursting to do its bestan arm reaching for a drowning mana back wet with sweata muscle true as sunrisea cheer for a frienda smile for another day to open our eyes under the same sky as the swordfish and the beara laugh because we are still alive and have a chanceas Charlie Chaplin tramps down his open road twirling his cane even though he doesn’t havea penny in his pockethappy to sharpen a drill bit against a grinding wheeltell a story to a grandchildmake the wheel that rolls the cup that pours the whistle that blowsthe cymbal that crashes the wing that lifts the steel I-beam that stands the trombonethat slides the pan that cooks the curtain that opens on A Streetcar Named Desire the chiselthat cuts a jewel for the finger of a beaming bride the bellthat will ring the day the tyrant is brought to his knees the breadthe man unemployed for a year will break the day he finally finds work the shoethat fits the key that unlocks the shovel that buries the candle that burns the revolutionthat frees the Volkswagen13 clowns climb out of the hairbrush for a woman who finally feels beautiful the paintbrushfor Van Gogh if he had decided not to shoot himself the fire hydrantthat could have kept the 1906 city of San Francisco from burning downwe are all on the pathdown the river in the game under the stars inside the belly of the beastof being alivewe all want to workthe way the stars workthe way our mother worked to birth usthe way the taxis arriveand the apples ripen and the barber cuts and the electrician reaches for his pliersand the ballerina leaps through the heart of Tchaikovsky and the cats yawn and the grains of sand roll and the baker kneads his doughwe are all childrenof the bones under the soil the knuckles of jackhammer operators the lunch pails of stevedores the lonely midnight ridesof truck drivers the strikes of school bus drivers the striped hatsof railroad engineerswe are the foundation of the housethe smokestackthe loading dock the tin door thrown open to a rising sun the thumbaround a red monkey wrench the steel-toed bootunder a 2-ton bar of steel the beepof a forklift the yodel of a ditch digger the flashof a shooting starwe are why the numbers add up the rivers flow downhill the swallowsreturn to San Juan Capistrano each yearwe are right as waves true as Sierra Nevada mountains indispensableas air delightfulas eating a banana split in a gondola steered down a Venice canal by a mansinging Verdiwe will never be contained by a bottom linea profit grapha brand nameand we should never let ourselves be turned against each otherto fatten the wallets of those who look down their noseat uslet’s shine a light on what’s behind those tin wallsinstead of looking back over our shoulders at the bosses in fearlet’s look forward to envision a new brave future of loveand equality and brotherhoodfor we are worthy of 10,000 poems in our honorlet Van Gogh set up his easelBeethoven sit down at his pianoSouza warm up his marching bandMarx sharpen his pencil Twain fire up his pipeRousseau loosen humanity’s chainslet Mona Lisa smileBabe Ruth step up to the plateGalileo drop his 2 cannonballs off the Leaning Tower of PisaUlysses head for homeall’s right with the universeas long as we workers have the dirt of the earth on our handsand the truth of the tigers and the treesin our hearts.

12 years old and out the station onto Gillespie Road it’s only 40 minutes before kick-off and no tickets in our pockets yetbut that was how it was back then you didn’t need to have saved for over 5 months gone without to build up a ticket float or luck out on a mate of a mates who couldn’t make the match had a season ticket up for lending as long as you covered the costs it was more like a decision made over breakfast or after a row between him and his new girlfriend where he’d finally go, ‘fuck it son, let’s go to the match’and there we were me trying to keep up with him as he weaved through the buzz of the crowdpast the old factory where luxury flats now stand costing more than the price of a French full backa Portuguese left wingerand as we turned onto Avenell Rd he’d stop turn around and slip me that 50p leaving me at the schoolboy’s entrance telling me not to hang around, to use my elbows if need be like the great Willie Young and then he was gone me handing the guy in the hut that 50p before pushing through that turnstile the creaks of it sounding like a tanker ship being let off to sea waiting there then at the side entrance to the North Bank where all of the dads and uncles and brothers had paid their £3.50 entry feeand it’d take an age there sometimes long enough that you’d feel like you’d been abandoned shit yourself about never getting home again but finally he’d appear, “oi, son! get a move on” and then you were in following him towards the steps that led up into the North Bank and as you got up to the top of them it’d open up into the greatest feeling in the world

but this is not a feeling that can be passed on anymorethis is not a feeling that can be passed to our daughters and sons it has been stolen from themturned into a circuswhere tickets cost more than one weeks’ rent one months’ electricity one fortnightly food shop and an extra bottle of winewhere tv and the Murdochshave slit the stomach of itpulled out the entire guts of our traditions for a euro and a roubleand Willie Young’s elbowshave been sawn offnow walks like a ginger ghost inside our headslooking for a ball of anger to boot from our couchesup into the Sky